Wait a moment. He gurgled as if trying to communicate. Where was the message? Where was Gerald? Until he came back, what was there for her to do? Eh bien, it made no sense to do anything. Through all this flutter of novelty there came and went a solicitous, preoccupied, almost depressed figure. Lucy loved orchestras, the bittersweet tinge of rosin dust that hung in the air, the way that the sun shone through filthy windows illuminating the marimbas with a storybook light. The vote is only the beginning, the necessary beginning.
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